04 BBC SHERLOCK: The Case of the FLAT-OUT Adventure
by Wynsom
Summary: The enduring relationship between Sherlock and John can be seen in many subtle ways; how they work together, how they play together, how they understand each other, and how little they need to talk about it. Not a mystery, but an ADVENTURE, this fic examines the nuances of these extraordinary characters on what might be considered an ordinary day. Takes place before TRF.
1. Chapter 1

**_"In every real man_**

 ** _a child is hidden that wants to play."_**

 _ **Friedrich Nietzsche**_

 **ooOOOoo**

 **Prologue: Burgled**

 **ooOOOoo**

"Torch's dead." Gerry stopped in his tracks.

Behind, Jack bumped into him. "Uh! No light switch?"

Gerry and Jack stared into the darkness at the base of the staircase.

"Never been, not since I've worked here," Gerry answered. "And that's going on seven years." He thumped the torch against his palm several times, unable to jostle it on. "Hated this job—salvage inventory. 'Working in the dungeon,' used to call it. But architectural restoration brings big money, and somebody's got to do it. Happens to be us. Gotta find the string, dangling under the bulb, somewhere in the middle…we'll have to feel our way towards it."

The dimly lit basement of the warehouse was not pitch dark, but it always took Gerry several minutes to adapt to the surroundings and even then it was hard to see.

"C'MON!" the shout from above urged them. "Got the contractor holding. Sez he'll call elsewhere if we don't hurry!"

"AW, RIGHT! Hold on, mate!" Gerry shouted his answer with frustration. "Gotta find the BLOODY light."

"Dammit! This here's the stock boy's job and the bloke is a no show today," Gerry snorted with annoyance. His infrequent visits challenged him to remember where things lay as he groped with his arms outstretched through the inky blackness toward the light pull-chain. "Oww!" Gerry stubbed his toe on an unexpected object in his path, whilst Jack grunted and swore having smacked his shin on another solid object that felt like a wooden crate.

Gerry was first to reach the bare bulb and yanked on the light that swung from the rafter nearly two metres above them. They squinted as the sudden illumination flooded the space, and when their eyes adjusted, they immediately recognized a serious problem.

Crates that should have been stacked on the shelves were placed randomly on the floor and each of the tops had been carefully pried opened, exposing the contents. Old doorknobs, brass plates, sconces, and artfully etched escutcheons for light switches had been uncrated and scattered on the floor alongside packing materials. From the looks of it, more items seemed to be missing, signifying a deliberate hand —that of a burglar's—had caused the disorder.

"Jack," Gerry's voice trailed as his gaze took in the crime scene. "This don't look right. Tell Sammy to call the boss. I think Mr. Dodd needs see this."

 ** _ooOOOoo_**

 ** _Chapter One: The Guessing Game_**

 ** _ooOOOoo_**

"Sherlock?" John tried not to sound startled by what he saw when he reached the landing.

"Hmmmm?" Sherlock had sunk so deeply into his LeCorbusier-style chair that, with his legs bent to support his suspended weight, he resembled a human table which seemed to be his intention; for he had his laptop balanced on his torso and was reading intently, barely registering John's appearance. The preoccupied detective was still dressed in the plum-colored shirt and dark trousers that he had worn that morning when John had left for work, except for one noticeable change. The screen illuminated Sherlock's face in the darkened sitting room and emphasized the uncharacteristic presence of a black eyepatch over his left eye.

"Y'okay?" Beneath John's nonchalance was a doctor's disquiet.

"Thinking," Sherlock responded in an impersonal tone with a distracted wave of the hand.

After more than a year living with the famous Sherlock Holmes, John had become acclimatized to his flatmate's penchant for eccentric behavior, including odd sitting positions. However, the covered eye was worrisome. From a medical perspective John was concerned he had missed something. Had Sherlock been suffering from an ophthalmic condition of which he, the detective's live-in physician, was unaware? John was certain he would have noticed glaucoma or conjunctivitis. Perhaps, Sherlock had sustained a sudden injury during a lab experiment today despite donning his goggles? Even a mere corneal abrasion would be excruciating, producing excessive tears, and requiring drops or ointments to relieve discomfort and prevent scarring.

Yet, Sherlock did not appear to be in any distress. In fact the doctor noted with some relief that the detective seemed at ease and focused, albeit one-eyed, on his laptop screen, all indicators of someone not in severe pain. Ruling out a sudden injury as a reason for the patch, John also felt certain there was no underlying disease.

When he left for the surgery that morning John recalled Sherlock using both healthy-looking eyes to deliver his signature laser stare—the one the detective often used for deducing a person or committing a significant item to memory. As unnerving as it seemed, John had come to realize Sherlock was using this same stare as a unique way of imprinting "John Watson's departure." Otherwise, the detective seemed to hold conversations whilst the doctor was out for groceries, at the surgery, or away in Dublin.

After quietly studying the recumbent figure and feeling confident in his medical diagnosis, John decided not to ask the obvious question. Sherlock would disclose all when he was ready.

The landing was dim, lit only with indirect lighting from the ground floor, and John struggled to hang up his jacket on the peg. With his unadjusted eyes, he could not see what he was doing. The sound of his jacket flopping onto the floor indicated he had missed the wall peg entirely. With a tired sigh, he stooped to pick it up, feeling for the elusive peg with his fingers, and finally hooked the jacket before he crossed toward his armchair. On an ordinary evening, he would have automatically gone to the kitchen and prepared their supper, but curiosity took him off course this night.

"Mind if I… ?" John hesitated by the lamp closest to his comfortable cigar chair not certain if he should switch it on.

"Sorry?" Under knitted brows, Sherlock narrowed the one exposed eye and peered at his companion.

"The light?" John assumed that behind the patch, the left eye was aligned. "Will it bother you?"

"No lights right now." A slight smile pulled at Sherlock's lips when John had entered the sitting room.

"Why? Migraine? Light sensitivity? Nausea?" John knew that his discrete attempt at a 'house call' did not pass unnoticed. However, the detective seemed oddly amused without his customary whining about prying flatmates. This confirmed for the good doctor that his impatient patient was not in any pain.

The slight smile lingered as Sherlock shook his head. "It's a test, John." He corrected his posture in the chair, closed his laptop and put it down on a side table, then turned to the now-seated John.

"A test. I see." John's eyelids closed, and he rolled his weary head to loosen up his tight shoulders and his neck, "Oh, so not just _playin_ g pirate, then are we?" He cocked one eye open and was rewarded with a view of his friend's entertained grin.

"Oh, this thing?" The detective tapped the patch. "Part of the test."

"What are you testing? And why?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, pressed his hands together and tucked his tented fingers under his chin, evading the question completely. "When you were at work today, a client came with a problem."

"A problem, _hmmmm_. By any chance, it had _nothing_ to do with punching you in the eye?"

Beyond the typical sarcasm, Sherlock heard John's enthusiasm and grinned more broadly, revealing the dimples in his cheeks. "Mrs. Hudson admitted Willy R. Dodd at half nine, precisely sixty-seven minutes after you had gone."

"Anything good?"

The detective seemed to brush past the question without acknowledging that he heard John. "Thought better than to ring you at the surgery—your caseload was particularly full this morning. I checked. Your online diary listed a case of bronchitis 8.45, followed by eczema 9.10, a urinary tract infection 9.30, strep throat 9.50, irritable bowel syndrome or diverticulosis, either one causing constipation 10.05…,"

"You _what_? How?" Any thoughts of receiving a direct answer to his previous question were eclipsed by Sherlock's blatant invasion of patient privacy, and John balked, "You know it's unlawful to breach my confidential files— "

"— It's not my fault. The surgery should secure its firewall _properly_ ; but I imagine it would be a greater bother to you if you received my texts constantly. It's for your own good. This way, I know when to contact you."

"That explains the _remarkable_ coincidences of your texts arriving between patients!" John's scowl was unmistakable, even for a one-eyed man in dim light.

"Think, John. Confidentiality is not a concern. Whom would I tell? And if I _had_ friends, which of them would actually _care?_ Who _really_ cares that 45-year-old Mrs. So-and-So has a UTI or 67-year-old Mr. What's-His-Name is constipated?" The detective stretched his arms and fidgeted in his chair. "No threats to public safety your lot of patients—except listening to their endless complaints could cause boredom in epidemic proportions."

"Get lots of practice _listening_ to boring complaints at home," John deadpanned.

Disregarding John's aside, Sherlock continued with his edification, "The only value I see in your returning to practice, John—besides your unnecessary concern for financial stability—is that it maintains your excellent skillsets and training, you enjoy some aspects of it, and it has sharpened your deductive skills, making you indispensable in the work."

"Hooo-kay! Heard enough!" John huffed and slapped both arms of his chair as he pushed himself to his feet.

Immediately, Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, preventing the doctor from leaving the sitting room. "You have more to say." As suddenly, he released his grip from John's wrist. "Say it."

Squinting at the seated detective—even in the dark, the black eyepatch was a sharp contrast against the detective's pale skin— John hesitated, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and chose to speak in even tones. "Helping people has no value, then?" There was a definite edge of annoyance in his voice. Sherlock and he had been here before.

Sherlock pondered that question for a moment with a tilt of his head. "It is a by-product we both share, though our methods and motivations may differ somewhat."

"So you actually _intend_ to help others, even if you're being rude and intimidating, specifically because _bad_ behavior is _your_ method of inquiry." John let his gaze skip across the room, noticing that his eyes had finally adjusted to the dimness. He gradually brought his focus back to Sherlock when he continued. "Did it ever occur to you that compassion and sympathy can also be 'tools' to ascertain the facts?"

Sherlock frowned. "I use _my_ tools to extract the information I need as efficiently as possible. The element of surprise and shock, like calling the alarm of 'fire' in a room, often reveals a person's priorities much more quickly than does gentle encouragement or persuasion. Causing an argument expedites the process. I've told you this before: _People don't like telling you things, but they love to contradict you._ "

John wagged his head thoughtfully and averted his eyes. "You once asked me if caring about the victims will help save them." Not hearing a response, John slid a glance toward the seated man and caught Sherlock's subtle nod, the silent acknowledgement that he did indeed remember that exchange.

"Well, I _genuinely_ care about my patients and their recovery." Straightening to parade rest, John leveled his confident gaze on his friend with the affirmation, "and I _help_ them."

"Do you, John?" There was no acrimony in Sherlock's words; he had asked the question gently, without judgement or sarcasm, but John was jolted by the question that challenged his integrity.

Sherlock's uncovered eye narrowed in thought. "I mean are you a _lways genuine_? Don't you at times detach when the emotional connections interfere with the clarity of your thinking? Or are you someone who allows emotions to determine the best course of treatment? I think not. In fact, I know you don't. That's why you are an excellent doctor."

"Keeping my emotions in check is important," John agreed, "but I don't let my patients _feel_ my detachment or they will not have faith in my ability to help them."

"Not a _little_ deception, perhaps?" The detective continued to argue his point without insult or antagonism in his voice. "I've often said, what you do in this world is a matter of no consequence. The question is what can you make people _believe_ you have done _._ Are you saying, John, that you care as much for what they _think_ about you and your reputation? Would you never disagree with a patient who is pigheaded and wrong about your medical opinion or a patient who chooses to act unwisely, because otherwise, you assume they would not consult you again?"

"No! Of course not, but _…_ Rather, it's a balancing act within the proper social decorum," John's voice rose in frustration as he raised his eyes toward the ceiling, "They wouldn't seek my service if I mistreated them. And I can't go around dissecting live human beings—which would be your preferred method were you a physician—to determine what afflicts them. I have to associate the symptoms they present with their medical history, find common ground between their often unhelpful complaints and everything they are not saying so as to better understand their medical conditions. _Listening_ , Sherlock, no matter how tedious or boring, as a means of observation, is often the most essential tool of all."

"Exactly! You see, we do agree on how we deduce information. True, I listen and observe with detachment to filter out the emotional sentiments that conceal the truth," the detective stated with conciliatory politeness as he studied John's face. "But I do not actually care what they _think_ about me. My reputation for _solving_ the problem is sufficient, despite my infamous, so-called mistreatment of their feelings. I would venture, were they given the choice, they would choose my unfeeling method if it meant they would get the result they desired."

"If I recall correctly, your reputation was somewhat dull before— "

"— until my blogger romanticized the facts." Sherlock nodded. "I'm aware of that."

" _Caring_ about other's opinions brings you more work."

"I care _less_ for other's opinions. Work comes to me because I am without peer in what I do."

"And let's not forget modest," John quipped with a straight face.

"Modesty is often a disguise of the insincere and a way of begging for compliments," Sherlock replied evenly. "If all things were seen logically the way they should be, underestimating one's abilities is equally disingenuous as exaggerating them." Sherlock gestured toward the upholstered chair facing him. "Now, sit down…. _please_. Hear me out. Or do you not _care_ about whether we have a case with Willy Dodd?"

Curiosity overrode John's irritation; he sat down with an audible sigh. "A cuppa about now would be nice… and _some_ nourishment."

"Later. Listen!" Sherlock did his best to mask his self-satisfied smile before continuing. He leant toward his friend. "Modeling some of your civilities to appear receptive, I warned the potential client we might be too busy, but I would listen and consult with _my partner_ before deciding if we could take the case."

"You don't _have_ any cases at the moment," the doctor stated flatly. "Wait! Did you _really_ say _my partner_? "

"You've insisted on being involved in the decision-making. As I do welcome your participation, John, the inconvenience of you absence is problematic and can impact the opportunity of acquiring interesting cases. I have come up with the best solution. I will determine its _Crime Scene Interest Scale_ during a vetting process. Below four, I solve it here in the flat, whether you're present or not, and send the client off. If I feel it's worth our investigative services, then it's up to you whether you wish to participate, or else I'd do it alone. This is fair and a better use of our time. Compare it to you not informing me about every dreary common cold in your medical caseloads at the surgery. Am I right?"

"Not sure I can tell you anything you haven't already hacked through the insufficient firewall," John muttered under his breath, holding back his personal protests about Sherlock taking on cases alone. "Of course you're right, and I'd gladly join you," he added audibly with an emphatic nod of his head. "So, what's the scale for this one? Or did you send him away?"

"After I tell you Willy Dodd's case, you may judge for yourself."

"Hmm," John's mood brightened at the prospect of being actively involved. "Okay," he beamed, feeling invigorated by his friend's praise and inclusion. Although for Sherlock Holmes guessing was "a shocking habit—destructive to the logical faculty," John enjoyed the idea of playing what appeared to be Sherlock's guessing game.

 **ooOOoo**

(to be continued very soon.)

Special thanks to my special beta and friend englishtutor as well as my other wise friend who prefers to be nameless for their guidance and support.


	2. Chapter 2: In The Dark

**_Chapter Two: In the Dark_**

 ** _oooOOooo_**

 _Sherlock asks John to determine whether the Willy Dodd case can be solved in the flat as they continue their evening conversation in the unlit sitting room at 221B Baker Street._

 ** _oooOOooo_**

"Willy Dodd explained," Sherlock narrated the facts in an animated voice so his tired flatmate would pay attention and not nod off in their dark surroundings, "that he owns and operates numerous sizable warehouses for architectural fittings—artifacts that include antique doors, aged timber, fireplaces, mantels, flooring, ceiling beams, bricks, tile, chandeliers, stained glass, pillars, plaster and wood moldings, doorknobs, sconces, heating grills—"

"—okay, think I get it, Sherlock," John yawned.

"—even gold-leaf bric-a-brac, brass fixtures, and copper tubing, nuts and bolts," Sherlock continued without missing a beat, " which he salvages from old buildings undergoing renovations and preserves for restorations—his business is estimated to be worth more than £40 million a year."

"Oi!" John's eyes widened. "What was I thinking going into medicine?"

"You were thinking to save lives, not to make money," huffed the detective in a tone that showed he expected no arguments. "Didn't we just discuss helping people?"

"True," John said softly. "But not having enough to live on…" He trailed off, painfully aware how often his bank account had been depleted by the necessities of living in London on a soldier's pension, not to mention the few occasions when Sherlock would advance him what he needed —it had been humiliating, even if Sherlock hadn't minded. Whilst work at the surgery had significantly improved his financial state, on the down side, it gave him less time to spend on the work with Sherlock, and after a long day, he often felt he _was_ burning the candle on both ends.

"So you needed a flat share. Problem solved." Sherlock shelved the topic as though the solution to his own need was satisfactory for all. "These warehouses," the detective proceeded, "are located throughout the UK in addition to several smaller ones in Belgium and France, however, it is the one in London that has had a problem. Several days ago, Dodd got proof of what he had been suspecting for some months. He discovered specific inventory was missing, small Victorian-era pieces of hardware that still have an accumulative value upwards of £25,000."

"Does he suspect anyone?"

Sherlock nodded. "He harbors suspicions about some of his recent hires, but he can't prove anything.

"What about security cameras?"

"Yes, he has security cameras at the main exits of all his buildings. However, the basement of his London warehouse where the burglary took place has none due to insufficient lighting. It's too dark. Regular CCTV cameras have been rendered ineffective. Until now, he had not thought he needed video surveillance for that storage area."

"If expense is not a problem, why doesn't he upgrade his surveillance with night vision cameras or even infrared, the kind used in the military?"

"He could and he most likely will find some way to install surveillance. He did look into his options. However, he was told that because there is a functioning, overlarge old furnace in the basement, infrared cameras which rely on heat-sources to locate activity, may not be the best choice given the area, and night vision which as you know, John, collects and amplifies available light that bounces off objects, is not without its problems. A high-powered torchlight or burst of light could easily overload the camera. Either surveillance option will ultimately deter the burglars from future raids, but it will not necessarily identify them unless the police are on hand to swoop in and make arrests whilst it's happening."

"So let me guess. Not a top priority for the Met."

"Small trinkets, nuts, and bolts such as these, no matter how antique, are classified as salvage not art treasures or precious gems. They are not a high-priority concern of our regular constabulary. Here in London, the NSY actually has a three-man specialist unit—I checked online, the only such squad in the country—that investigates the theft of architectural art and antiques, but they can only handle so much per year and nothing this small. So you see, Mr. Dodd's merchandise does not merit the attentions of that specialized force."

"It must be hard to keep track of nuts and bolts, antique or otherwise. Although if ironmongers and B&Q keep tabs of their inventory, I suppose salvagers must do the same."

"At least an enterprise like Dodd's. When he set up his first warehouse thirty-five years ago, it was small-scale and could be done by hand, but he has since utilized modern technology to inventory everything that comes through his warehouses. He has to have thorough inventory records to satisfy prospective clients."

"So he knows what's missing?"

"He does—antique door plates, screws, cupboard clasps, hinges, brackets, vintage doorknobs, sconces, and varied small parts that once reassembled become fine treasured pieces like chandeliers and decorative inserts on mantels—and he has already reported them as stolen. Dodd regularly uses the 'theft alerts' registry from an online directory of specialist salvage companies. This system lists stolen merchandise and helps dealers check the legitimacy before they unwittingly buy a 'hot' artifact. Each theft alert documents the item with a picture and crime reference number, so salvagers and antique dealers have proof when they contact the police about stolen property."

"Why take things that can be identified? Do you think his burglars are unaware of the ID system?"

"Interesting, John. You assume there is more than one. Yes to your question. It seems that whoever took the items was not concerned they might be tagged. Either it was done in ignorance by a rank amateur or was deliberately taken by a private collector who would have no interest in selling the items."

"Vintage pieces from the same historic period! That sounds like someone doing their own restoration, otherwise taking them seems pointless."

"Now you are talking motivation." Sherlock grinned his approval. "You are quite right. Unless the materials are kept privately or melted down for scrap— rendering them less valuable for resale—the pieces would be identified if put back in circulation. Dodd is certain of this."

"So, what does he want with us?" John couldn't help relishing the word _us_.

"He wants _us_ to tell him _how_ —how his warehouse is being infiltrated. We're his last resort."

Reaching over to his side table, Sherlock handed John his laptop and swiveled it to face the doctor before lifting it open. When John punched the keypad, the sudden brightness was blinding and he needed to blink to see what Sherlock wanted him to view. Once he could focus, John saw a list in pdf format of the stolen inventory. On the bottom of the first page the total of £2,155.00 was highlighted in red, indicating the value of the stolen merchandise. As he scrolled down the pages, John realized each inventory sheet was marked similarly and the total value of missing merchandise was adding up.

"This certainly wasn't all taken in one day?" John looked up from the screen, suddenly unable to see anything behind it because his eyes had been flooded by the bright light.

"Most likely it had been going on for several months." Sherlock spoke from the inky darkness. "When the stock boy did not report to work, the other hires discovered the problem. 'Sick Boy' hasn't returned to work. There's more."

John couldn't make out Sherlock's face in the darkness, but he could hear the smile in his voice. "I've spent the afternoon studying the video surveillance tapes Dodd gave me and viewed several months' worth from which I selected these few to show you. There are more of the same, but for now these represent the incident well enough for our purposes. Hit the video tab next, John. Tell me what you think."

"Right." Although it was impossible for John to see, it was easy to imagine the detective with his hands steepled under his chin, thinking quietly whilst John viewed the videos.

Settling the laptop on his knees, John followed Sherlock's directive, opened the next tab and pressed play. Even in fast forward, the grainy black-and-white images from the CCTV cameras at the store exits clearly demonstrated patterns of customer traffic in and out of the warehouse showroom through the main doors, and staff members with keys using the alley doors for access to the back of the building. John observed three women—he assumed the clerical staff by their dress and deportment—going in the main entrance in the morning and watched as one-at-a-time each woman left for a lunch break, returning within the allotted hour. At the end of the day, all three left together as the showroom closed down.

This was the routine, repeated several times with little variation, until John viewed the fourth sequence of daily traffic. There was not a new element in the traffic flow, but in the previous videos, an occurrence that had initially seemed random struck John as odd. What he observed began to feel staged.

"What a minute. What's this? It's the same guy." Leaning back in surprise, John paused the image and tapped the screen as he glanced toward Sherlock. Again, the bright screen made everything behind it, including the detective, blanketed by darkness.

"This man here!" John hunched closer to the screen and tried to focus on the blurry image. "A vagrant of some kind. In shabby clothes. Staggers about like he's drunk or high. He seems to come into the store at the main entrance on two days and look! He's ejected immediately by an employee. But on the other two days, at least in the tapes I've seen so far, he's pushed out the main door, like before, but I don't recall seeing him enter…is some part of the tape missing?" He turned the laptop toward his friend so both he and Sherlock could see together, but in the light from the laptop screen, Sherlock's chair was empty.

"Hit play on the tab labeled 'Alley Door' for more footage."

Sherlock's words were unexpectedly close behind John's right ear, startling him. He jerked and twisted his head over his right shoulder toward his friend's voice.

" _JEEZ_ -us! Sherlock!" John complained to cover his fright. "What the _HELL_ are you doing?" John heard the soft sound of a plate placed upon his side table and smelled the aroma of his favorite tea.

"Mind your elbow. You might spill it. It's strong, maybe not too hot. Been steeping this tea before you got home; and since you said you were hungry, here's a plate of biscuits too from Mrs. Hudson—"

"What?" An astonished John stared at the cuppa and biscuits. " _Nononono_." He merged the words for emphasis. "Not again. This better not be drugged. You _promised_ me…."

"Only tea. Promise!" The retreating sound of his voice convinced John that Sherlock had gone back to the kitchen. Using the light of the laptop like a torch, John tracked Sherlock as the detective retrieved his own mug of tea and returned to the sitting room.

"No drugs of any kind." Sherlock raised a scout's salute in a pledge of truth. "Haven't gone daft, either. Just making a point about this case." He settled back into his chair and sipped with a slurping sound. "Tell me what you see." His baritone voice was plainly enthused.

"Where were we? Oh, right. Play the 'Alley Door' footage." Looking up at his flatmate to assure himself he was still seated, John did a double take for another reason. His mouth gaped open to speak but he immediately clamped it shut. He decided to hold his comment until he finished viewing the video. John hit the tab and watched.

This footage revealed that, on two of the four days, the alley door had been left ajar, and the vagrant had slipped in. John noticed something different from this angle and brought the focus closer on the image.

"A-Hah! He's wearing an eyepatch!" John said excitedly, a huge smile brightened his face as an understanding dawned. "And don't think I didn't notice you switched your patch, Sherlock. It's over your right eye now."

"Now Doctor Watson!" Sherlock hooted with delight, "You're a physician who nearly chose ophthalmology as his speciality, what can you advise our client?"

John touched each finger as he began to enumerate: "It's an inside job. An accomplice is letting the burglar in the alley door. The vagrant wears an eyepatch to get his eye accustomed to low-light conditions. He makes quick work in the dark since his covered eye can adjust better to low-light areas." John grinned broadly. "Like you just did here in the flat while I was blinded by the laptop. Scaring me with tea and biscuits, which is pretty scary considering being served by you is frightening even in broad daylight!"

"What else?"

"When he is ejected from the warehouse, he's not wearing the patch and doesn't seem to be bringing things out, so he must drop them off somewhere within the warehouse for the accomplice to traffic."

"Good, John." Excited, Sherlock planted his hands on the arms of the chair, lifted his body up, and tucked his long legs in a crouching position on the seat. "How would you rank this on the Scale?"

"Really, Sherlock, we might know the _how_ , but we still don't know the _why_ and the _who_."

"Go on."

"Dodd only asked us to tell him _how_ it was done, but I see it as two-fold. A #3 for the _how_ , but this might be a #7 requiring onsite investigation for the _why_ and the _who_."

Sherlock sprang from his chair and alighted gracefully on his feet. "On site it is! I texted him while you were watching the alley footage. Dodd's expecting us at half seven." Sherlock grabbed their coats and handed John his.

Seeing all things more clearly as he accepted his coat and stuffed an arm through the sleeve, John nodded his head. "Here in the flat, you planned your little demonstration; keeping me in the dark and out of the kitchen, and baiting me with your hacking story…which I assume is still true."

"Nearly lost you when I pushed too far," Sherlock muttered as if admonishing himself. "Have to show a bit more delicacy, I see."

John paused to look at his partner. "How could you be so sure that when I came in I wouldn't have just put on the light and headed into the kitchen as I ordinarily do?"

"The eyepatch." Sherlock smiled with satisfaction as he knotted his scarf around his neck. "Wearing the eyepatch diverted you from routine."

"I'm that transparent?" John zipped up his jacket.

"Hmmmm. Most times." Sherlock patted his pockets, checking their contents.

"So are you," John remarked over his shoulder as he strode to the side table, took a sip of his tepid tea, and grabbed a biscuit.

"Huh?" Sherlock spun in his long coat to study his friend. His right eye still covered by the patch.

"You know, it only requires a half hour for the eye to adjust." John chewed and grabbed another biscuit.

"I know." The detective put up his collar and hesitated before admitting slowly. "I just enjoy playing the pirate."

"So where's my patch?" John downed the last of his tea and snatched up the lone biscuit from the plate.

Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and with a graceful dip of his hand pulled out another eyepatch. "Thought you'd never ask!"

oooOOOooo

(Still more to come)

Again, special thanks to my beta/friend englishtutor and the nameless wise one for their guidance and support.


	3. Chapter 3 The Game is On: First Part

**The Game's On: Sherlock and John are OUT on an adventure**

 **ooOOOoo**

 **First Part:**

Twenty minutes later a taxi discharged John and Sherlock in the chilled twilight air across the street from the Willy R. Dodd Salvage Warehouse in the High Street Harlesden. Where they stood at the kerb waiting for a break in the traffic, dusk gave them the advantage of seeing through the broad storefront windows into the brightly lit interior.

Assorted prism chandeliers hung from the ceiling, tall wooden columns normally seen on porticoes framed the large window on the inside. Although the view was partially blocked by bulky geometric shapes from salvaged architectural remnants, the human activity that took place within was eye-catching, like watching a film on an elaborate set with the sound turned off.

"Hurry, John!" Sherlock beckoned with a wide sweep of his arm once traffic allowed them to cross.

As they approached the corner building, John saw a towering figure in the center of the showroom.

"Yup. That's Dodd," Sherlock nodded in response to John's furrowed brow.

John eyed Dodd with apprehension. Willy Dodd held his great arms akimbo, listening with a stern look on his rugged face—a face weathered by years in the construction trade. Atop his massive head was a shock of dark grey, wiry hair. As he folded his thick arms across his barrel chest, he moved slowly, ploddingly like an elephant, and seemed as formidable. His attention was thoroughly absorbed by the two shorter men standing before him. They were gesturing with their hands, apparently offering explanations, whilst two more men and three women stood nearby. All eyes were riveted on the speakers.

Given Dodd's powerful bulk, if this man _had_ taken a swing at Sherlock in the flat, a black eye would have been the least of the detective's worries. John cleared his throat, trying to remove the concern from his voice, "—Dodd called in _all_ his employees for this special meeting?"

"Yes. At least _all_ who matter," Sherlock nodded as they both reached the pavement in front of the warehouse where he lightly touched John's shoulder as a signal to wait. "During our consult earlier today, Dodd had provided me with their names and details of their job descriptions in case we wished to question them. Did background checks whilst you were at the surgery, but your fresh perspective and impressions would be helpful. My text this evening let him know we would come by and hold our own inquiries." Sherlock paused and tilted his head as if listening. "Sure, John, he's fierce looking, but actually he's a gentle giant and too sluggish to have done me or my eye any damage."

"Right!" Always unnerved when it appeared that Sherlock had read his mind, John swiftly recovered his composure and motioned with his head toward the warehouse. "This isn't _Cluedo,_ remember."

"No, it's not. More like _Inspector Hercule Poirot_ in my thinking." With a devilish grin on his face, Sherlock studied the illuminated scene through the storefront glass. "Should be fun."

"Tread carefully, please. Broken reputations and people's lives are hard to restore." Although he spoke softly, John's warning was clear.

"I will do my best, John," Sherlock replied in his usual dry tone.

The bright interior lit Sherlock's face with a mellow glow, but John sensed Sherlock was feeling anything but mellow. "Somehow, that's not reassuring," the doctor challenged.

Turning on his heel to face his partner, Sherlock threw John an injured look that John did not believe for one moment was sincere. Rather, the doctor countered his friend's feigned indignation with a lifted brow and waited for Sherlock to acknowledge the truth.

Gradually, an amused smile—of concession—spread across the detective's face. He chuckled softly as he slowly backed toward the main entrance. Seconds before his back collided with the double doors, Sherlock spun around, flung out his arms to pull them wide, and strode through with John at his heels. All eyes turned toward them, and all discussion died instantly. John suspected it may have had more to do with the dramatic-looking black eyepatches both he and Sherlock were wearing rather than with their _dramatic_ entrance.

Quickly John surveyed the warehouse showroom. It was crammed from end-to-end and floor-to-ceiling with eclectic pieces salvaged from Tudor to Edwardian-era buildings, doubtless slated for demolition. A selection of old doors from homes, churches and commercial properties were leaning against one wall; colorful stained-glass windows were stacked on racks, several claw-foot tubs were arranged like a small fleet with barely enough room between to allow for a normal human to squeeze past. Ornate cast-iron radiators in all shapes and sizes were herded like sheep in another section, and strapped bundles of aged-wood flooring were propped upright against the far wall. Only the center, where the workers stood with their boss, had enough open space for them to group.

Sherlock had already joined them as John approached.

"Ah, Mr. Dodd." Sweeping his powerful one-eyed laser stare over the assembled personnel, Sherlock acknowledged the dominant person in the room with a nod and then gestured toward his right. "This is my esteemed partner, Dr. John Watson. As instructed, you have called in your staff. Good. Also, I see _the one_ is still missing."

" _Wha'!_ Is this a joke, Holmes?" Despite his heavy voice, Dodd's stern look lost some of its edge as amusement played over his features. Several of his employees suppressed snorts and giggles.

Watching their reactions, John realized the eyepatches were distracting, diluting the mood with levity rather than the gravity required to ensure the investigation's success. It might be harder for Sherlock to command an authoritative presence costumed with the signature piece of a pirate.

"We are _quite_ serious, I assure you," Sherlock wielded his imperious tone like a sword cutting through a thicket. The chortles immediately stopped.

"Fine!" Dodd was the only one who seemed incapable of entirely losing his crooked smile. "Rang Tom up a few times. Can't be reached."

"I'm not surprise," Sherlock grunted as he surveyed the individuals briefly before directing the employees to regroup. "Office staff manager Judi Magnum—fourteen years with Dodd Salvage, assistants Clara Allens—eleven years, Tess Yorkton—four years, stand over here." He waved to his left.

The three women looked over at Dodd, who nodded that they should comply with Sherlock's directions.

"Warehouse managers Sam Giles—fifteen years at another Dodd Warehouse site in Cardiff, transferred two weeks ago to this location, and Gerry Smithers —seven years here, worked _literally_ from the bottom up, basement duties to main floor." Sherlock flicked his index finger, indicating where he wanted them to queue up next to the women. "Over here. Next, salvage sorters Jack Bainbridge—seven months, and Nathan Hollis—two years, stand alongside," Sherlock paused before bowing his head with exaggerated politeness, "and _Joh_ —Dr. Watson, please, you will step over here and aid me by holding the place for the missing stock boy, Tom—six months."

Demonstrating his detailed knowledge of their roles in the warehouse effectively subdued the last vestiges of the frivolous mood introduced by the eyepatches and gave Sherlock the authority and control he sought. The tension in the room was now palpable.

After he had rearranged the Dodd personnel, Sherlock walked up and down the row, his hands clasped behind his back, like a military officer inspecting his troops. Only John knew that Sherlock was far more capable at deducing details with one eye than any eagle-eyed commander the former army captain might have known. Leaning in to look closely at their hands or sniffing the air around them—except for John—Sherlock finished his inspection without uttering a word. The detective closed his eye and stood still. Although John had recognized Sherlock was filing information in his Mind Palace, the employees began to fidget nervously.

"NOW!" Sherlock shouted and clapped his hands abruptly startling everyone, including John. "I must inspect the basement, but first, the diary, schedules, and postings for the past three months. Where are they?"

Dodd lifted a bushy brow—an encouraging gesture of "go on"—toward his clerical staff and Judi was first to respond. "Over here, Mr. Holmes," she said and guided the detective to the desks and file cabinets where her coworkers and she kept the business flowing. John noted with a tight grin that the other employees held their ranks—Sherlock had not dismissed them—and waited at attention until the detective had finished examining the paperwork.

Returning to the ranks, Sherlock pointed at Gerry, Jack, and Nathan in quick succession. "You, you, and you! Come! _Monsieur_ Dodd and _Mlle_ Clara. _Mon ami_ , Dr. Watson, _s'il vous plait,_ _allons-y._ _Les autre,_ _allez-y_! _Attendez ici jusqu'à ce que je revienne_ " Whether his verbal commands challenged their listening comprehension, Sherlock's hand gestures clearly indicated who should remain in the showroom.

"So you want _us_ to wait here, until you get back?" Judi translated for Sammy and Tara who seemed confused.

" _Précisément_ ," Sherlock nodded distractedly, noting in his Mind Palace which employees understood French should it have bearing in this investigation. Pretending to be Poirot had some unexpected advantages. He decided he would reuse this ploy in future cases when warranted. "This should not take long," he quipped and with a dramatic flair existed the showroom toward the back hallway.

John suppressed outward expressions of amusement spurred by both Sherlock's French and "impersonation" of Inspector Poirot. Quietly, he followed the select group through the main floor toward a wide back corridor. The area was sizeable and as they passed two enormous storage rooms filled with stacks of corbels, brackets, furnishings, polished mahogany pieces of built-in cabinetry, mantelpieces in marble and wood, John marveled at the collections. It also prompted him to wonder why Sherlock had selected these four employees. Studying them, John decided to practice his own observational skills.

Clara Allens, early thirties, was the quietest of the group. Whilst there was no ring on her finger, John knew in today's world it did not necessarily indicate she was not in a relationship. Thin framed, tall, and slightly slouched as if unhappy with her height, she did little to style her hair or enhance her attractive features with cosmetics, unlike the other women in the office whom John had noticed tended to be more fashionable. Familiar enough with feminism to know this should not be criteria for judgment, John was also a physician trained to read body language; he easily saw Clara had low self-esteem as evidenced by her lackluster demeanor. From two metres away, she reeked of a cheaper brand of fragrance, likely bought in a Boots Pharmacy, as if this was the only _attention_ she lavished upon herself. The scent was not completely unpleasant, but to John's ordinary nose it was excessively sweet.

Gerry Smithers, a burly man with receding hairline and thinning on the crown—classic male-pattern baldness—was in his mid-forties. Someone who had spent much of his working life on his feet, he now favored his knees. John strongly suspected he had arthritis. The slight bags under his eyes were signs of inflammation related to consuming salty foods, not getting enough sleep, and possible allergies. Would Smithers take kindly to John suggesting a visit to a GP for consultation or would the man snap, "Piss off!" How many times had John accused Sherlock of being a show off? Yet, John realized how hard it was to resist offering unsolicited advice, especially when others were oblivious to the obvious.

John shifted his attention to the talkative Jack Bainbridge. A spindly youth with unkempt straw-colored hair, Jack had not yet grown into his frame. There was at least a ten-year gap between the boy and the others, and he was trying too hard to connect with his coworkers. From the snippets of conversation John overheard, he wasn't succeeding. After a few failed attempts, Jack began rhythmically bobbing his head whilst reciting phrases in imitation of his favorite rap artists, but to no avail. Clara and Nathan ignored him.

Nathan Hollis was a thirtyish man, rough around the edges and fidgety. He did not wear a wedding band, but the pale, indented skin on his left ring finger indicated he had worn one until recently. The close-cropped brown hair, heavy eyebrows, and chin stubble on a round face made him appear perpetually sullen. More telling was the impatience that glinted in his dark brown eyes, as if he wanted more out of life than being a salvage sorter and sometime lorry driver. John understood the man's sentiment all too well and reflected how his own life _had_ changed for the better. After a year of chasing Sherlock Holmes on assorted cases, the work and _this_ glorious feeling of vitality were far from getting old.

Even now, watching the detective perform yet another variation of this process on the current case, John's curiosity was still piqued.

 _What had Sherlock deduced about Dodd's four warehouse workers that distinguished them from the others? Enough it seems to have them return to the scene of the crime._ _No doubt, it was bloody amazing,_ John thought, _that Sherlock accomplished it all with an eyepatch over one eye!_

 **ooOOOoo**

* * *

To be continued...

Special thanks to my patient Betas who watch over me.


	4. Chapter 4 The Game is On: Second Part

**The Game's On: Sherlock and John are OUT on an adventure**

 **ooOOOoo**

 **Second Part:**

 _Recap: Investigating a burglary in the salvage warehouse, Sherlock and John accompany warehouse-owner Dodd and four of his workers to the scene of the crime._

 _oooOOOooo_

"What do you need with Nathan?" Dodd asked Sherlock as they headed past the storage rooms toward the basement entrance. The detective and owner held the rear, walking side-by-side, whilst John stayed just a pace ahead paired off with Gerry. Briefly, Jack stopped to grab a large Fenix LED Torch from a high shelf, but made quick work to catch up to Nathan and Clara who led the way.

"Mind," Dodd continued. "When we discovered the theft in the basement, he was on deliveries all day. One of our drivers took sick."

"I'm aware," Sherlock replied. "But his knowledge of procedure will help. According to the office diary, Tom and he usually share salvage inventory duties in the basement." John knew that if Sherlock had any other reason for including Nathan, he wouldn't necessarily divulge it at this time, but John also harbored suspicions about the man, although he couldn't quite put his finger on why.

"Gotta agree with Mr. Dodd," Gerry turned his head and interjected over his shoulder. "Nate and Tom regularly handle _Dungeon Duty_. Can't blame them for disliking it. I did it years ago. Forgot how dusty 'n tedious it was. But when this special order came in, Nate was out driving and Tom was a no show. So, me and Jack," he thumbed ahead at the youth holding the torch, "went down to fill it. Nate wasn't there 't all."

"Oh, yes, about Tom…," Sherlock added as if an afterthought, but John immediately recognized the diversionary tactic to get the topic off Nathan. With a deep inhalation, Sherlock introduced new information, presumably the truth, at lightning speed. "You may be interested to know that Tom did not come to work due to an unfortunate altercation with a phone box on route. Many witnesses were on hand to provide statements for the accident report and most concur on the essentials—that he swerved his bike to avoid a pushchair; the mother had little Louis in an _Out 'n' About_ _Double Nipper_ style—no, wait, that doesn't matter…"

Sherlock shook his head free of unnecessary clutter. Offering _all_ the details from the official report was like a rocket going off course. He immediately corrected the trajectory to bring his topic back on track. "…Anyway, Tom crashed. It was serious enough to land him in hospital with a concussion, abrasions, something broken, like a finger or two. They expect to release him tomorrow. Ironically, he couldn't ring you from the box because he was unconscious, his texting fingers were out of commission, and anyway his mobile suffered a worst fate—it died at the scene."

Dodd blinked for a moment as if to catch up with everything he had heard, and then boomed, " _BLOODY_ HELL!"

Jack and Clara jumped in fright, Gerry winced nervously, and Nathan assumed a defensive posture with fists raised. Their faces truly seemed alarmed as if they were unaccustomed to hearing Dodd raise his voice and swear. Although John had been paying close attention to the conversation between Sherlock and Dodd, bracing himself for Dodd's reaction was like anticipating a volcano about to erupt. When Dodd finally exploded, John recoiled. At the same time John noticed that Sherlock who had also been prepared for the warehouse owner's outburst succeeded in keeping his reaction in check.

"Tom's in hospital!" Stunned, Dodd repeated as if this would help him believe it. "Sorry," he added gently when he noticed he had startled his employees. They recovered with murmurs of sympathy about Tom.

Hearing the surprise in Dodd's voice and seeing his face stricken with genuine concern, John shed his original apprehension and warmed to the man.

"Poor lad! Didn't know. He's been having a rough patch; his dad was an old friend—passed away nigh a year. His mum's not been well since. Thought working here might help keep the boy out of trouble." In his broad face, Dodd's frown became a toothy grimace as if he suffered sympathy pains. "Which hospital? I'd like to ring him up."

"St. Charles Hospital, Exmoor Street, room 117…Do you _often_ give jobs to the progeny of old friends?" The swift answer followed immediately by the query achieved what Sherlock intended—more information slipping through, but Dodd was an honest man who didn't need interrogation techniques to elicit the truth.

"Sure. Jack's the nephew of a bloke I used to work with. And well, that's how _our_ Clara joined us, eleven years ago, as you mentioned. A recommendation from a friend," Dodd's face fell. "Well, _former_ friend now. Though, she's not a blood relative. This friend's sister and her were best friends. It was at the sister's wedding—Clara. What's her name?"

"Doreen."

"That's right! Clara was Doreen's Maid of Honour. At the wedding, Carl and me talked 'bout, uh, many things, uh," Dodd stammered, indicating he was referring to Clara, "giving 'people' a chance." He winked at Sherlock then lowered his voice to a whisper. "Poor girl. Still finds it hard to get out of her shell."

Dodd's attempt at _sotto voce_ appeared ineffective. Clara tilted her head as if she had heard.

"That would be Carl J. Masterson." Sherlock was using his conciliatory voice, but John knew that was not his motivation. "Yes, I've read the police report. That was a shame and _so_ unnecessary."

"Completely unnecessary! Well, you asked me if there might be anyone holding a grudge 'gainst me. He's the only one I could think of." Dodd's dismay appeared authentic. "When you share a trade as long as we have, you share a brotherhood too. Thought that's what we had, but Carl was a bit dodgy at times, and well, that's not how I do business."

"After you left my flat today, I reviewed the official police incident accounts. It seems you were entirely blameless." Sherlock was deliberately nudging the conversation even though Dodd needed little encouragement to talk.

"Whole thing happened right outside my own warehouse! In front of my own workers! Off his trolley, s'what I think. Still don't know what threw him into a fit, but the man was barmy that day!"

"I read you resisted the fight but took a few heavy blows before you defended yourself."

"I know I'm big, so I've been careful 'bout it all my life," Dodd nodded. "But when he picked up the rod, I had to stop him before it got worse. After I took a few hits on my shoulders, I grabbed it off him. He fell, broke his arm. My workers had already called the police. With so many witnesses talking about what they saw, charges were filed against Carl." Dodd wagged his head. "Figured he may have just needed to blow off steam. I was willing to let bygones be bygones."

"Apparently so," Sherlock concurred. "Charges were dropped, but it seems your Carl Masterson indeed had a shady history. With recklessness and battery on record, his solicitor fought to keep assault charges off record. It would have made things much more serious for him."

"I'm not a vengeful man, Mr. Holmes." Dodd sounded more sad than worried.

"Ah, true Mr. Dodd, but you can't say the same for your friend, Mr. Masterson."

Their conversation ended as they reached the half-way point in the rear of the warehouse. Leading in a single row toward the basement door were twelve labeled, but still-open postal boxes aligned and flush against the wall.

"What are these?" Sherlock leaned over each one, reading the labels and likely committing addresses and contents to memory. If any had destinations in London, Sherlock would have had no trouble mapping in his head its most-efficient shipping route.

"These are the mail orders. We ship small items, like hardware, nuts, bolts, doorknobs, switch plates, and such like in these." As the warehouse manager, Gerry maintained a level, business voice, although it was a thin veneer over his marked impatience.

"Do you always have _twelve_?" Sherlock raised his head and leveled his unpatched eye at the four employees as he waited for a reply.

"Nah. It varies. Some boxes _are_ our regular customers, and some are for calls from new clients," Gerry gestured with his hands for emphasis and pointed at the different labels for clarity. "Clara here handles the shipping end of things."

"As my Product Distribution Supervisor in charge of shipping merchandise," Dodd explained, "Clara coordinates and schedules with carriers—FedEx, UPS, Parecels2Go, DX, you know, if we don't deliver them ourselves. She also schedules our lorry drivers to make deliveries for the big items." Dodd urged Clara gently, "Tell Mr. Holmes about these…" he extended a meaty hand toward the tidy row of boxes at their feet.

Clara looked up at Dodd and then shifted her eyes from Gerry to Jack and rested briefly on Nathan before she dropped her gaze back to the floor. "Once the order is filled, I inspect the items in each box," she said shyly, "against the items listed on the inventory sheet and the shipping manifest before sealing the packages."

The detective said nothing. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and gave a soft grunt. His hands glided through the air as if he were sorting the information on a wall in front of him. Slowly he brought his arms to his sides and began to whirl in place, as if the motion assisted his memory. After two full, slow rotations, Sherlock opened his eyes wide and spun out like a satellite flung from orbit and headed toward a door at the far end of the corridor. Before reaching it, he stopped, surprised by an intersection from another hallway. "This branches off toward the front of the building," he stated rather than asked, "and leads back, full circle, to the showroom and main entrance," dramatically he flicked both index fingers in unison. "Hmmm. A second access-way to the front explains a lot…" his voice trailed as he resumed his progress toward the far door.

Remembering the video footage, John asked, "Is that the door to the side alley?"

"Yeah," Nathan said quickly. "But it's locked. Need a key to get in."

"But one wouldn't need a key to open it from the inside," Sherlock demonstrated effortlessly as he flipped the latch and momentarily opened the door to reveal the deepening twilight outside.

"Yeah, oh, right." Nathan fidgeted, suddenly aware what Sherlock was implying.

"Even so," Clara asserted in a sudden, loud voice. "Judi monitors the video feed from the cameras outside the alley door!" A sharp glance from Sherlock made her lose her nerve. Her voice grew softer. "She watches it on the computer at her desk…all day…."

"Tess takes over when Judi breaks for lunch," Gerry added. "So we do have eyes on the alley door pretty much all the time."

"Pretty much," Sherlock repeated thoughtfully from where he remained examining the alley door. "…All the time, you say. That is an astonishing claim, given the usual interruptions of phones, client needs, and general office work handled by Judi throughout the day."

"Well, you know," Gerry faltered. "She's keeping a _general eye_ out for anything suspicious; she's not actually a watchman."

"Neither a _man_ nor a guard on watch," Sherlock corrected. "No, she's _definitely_ not."

"What do you mean, Holmes?" Dodd's voice registered deepening concern.

"As efficient and capable at multitasking as Judi appears to be—I was impressed by her thoroughness earlier when she explained how operations are run here—she is _not_ infallible. In fact, statistics show that the vast majority of workers' lives are filled with distractions that reduce their ability to remain focused on any task for too long. Some researchers contend that there really is no such thing as multitasking, 'only faster and faster oscillations of attention between or among various attention-grabbing stimuli.' However, assuming all this is true, there must be moments when Judi is distracted especially when the dearth of 'suspicious' activity in the alley becomes monotonous."

After tapping his foot and waving both hands, Sherlock had begun to pace as though his body needed to keep moving. Just as suddenly, he halted, every twitch of his body ceased as he remembered something. "What about her _family_?" he muttered softly, but gradually his voice built in volume along with his certainty. "I noticed Judi took her mobile out and placed it on her desk—force of habit—when we spoke earlier. This is where she usually keeps her phone: within reach on her desk. She must be receiving calls during the work day, personal calls, right— Gerry? And you let it slide, as a courtesy: one manager to another."

Hesitating, Gerry peered sheepishly at Dodd before admitting, "Judi talks to her daughter. The girl's away at uni in the States. Every Tuesday and Friday, at the same time, Lyla calls her mum, it's but for five minutes. This is their only time to talk. Has something to do with scheduling conflicts due to class times, work, and of course the time difference."

"I see." Sherlock nodded. "And she receives those calls around half-noon, correct? When Tess is midway through her lunch break."

Gerry's face was wide with amazement, but Clara gasped out loud. "How d'ya know all that?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock quipped and glanced at John.

Deducing the whole distraction-by-mobile-family connections was genius, as far as John was concerned, although it was obvious how Sherlock figured out the time: On each of the CCTV videos when the alley door had been opened from within, the time stamp read 12.30 give or take a minute. John smiled slightly. It was nice being on the magician's side of the illusion for once.

Sherlock lingered at the alley door, bent down to sniff the handle, and once he seemed satisfied with his investigation, took his time rejoining the others.

In the meantime, the warehouse men had used the wait for business chatter about new shipments, damaged salvaged pieces, and who would fill orders with Tom still out. Among them all, Gerry's voice carried the loudest with an edginess that seemed to increase every time he looked at his wristwatch, which he did constantly. Clara stood apart with her eyes averted.

Taking advantage of the diversion created by their boisterous shop talk, Sherlock approached John and leaned over to whisper in his ear: "Judi was not the one letting the burglar in, as she was distracted by her daughter's conversation. The burglaries began long before Sammy was transferred here, and Tess was nearly always out to lunch and running errands— plus the doorknob smells of cheap perfume."

John kept his face neutral and did not shift his sight toward Clara, but he sympathized with the young woman for this information was indeed incriminating.

"EXPLAIN, please!" With an authoritative roar, Sherlock recaptured the men's attention and silenced them at once. When all eyes were on him, he restored his voice to normal volume and pointed toward a door on the facing wall, directly across from the basement entrance. "This door?"

"It's the women's loo." Jack piped up. "The gents' around the corner up there." Jack pointed to the corridor closer to the alley door, the one Sherlock had found fascinating because it returned to the showroom.

Sherlock nodded and pulled on the loo door. It opened for easy access from the storage rooms and main office where the women worked. Whilst John and Dodd stood on that side of the opening, Clara, Nathan, and Gerry were behind and had to step aside out of the way as it swung on squeaking hinges and mostly blocked the corridor in its sweep. Sherlock played with the creaking door several more times, standing first on one side and then the other, viewing it from different angles as he swung it opened and closed. Ducking inside, he flushed several times and timed how long the water closet took to refill. "Mmm…a bit of an antique, that is. Over two minutes: two minutes forty seconds precisely." He remarked aloud although he wasn't addressing anyone in particular. "Certainly not a modern unit that uses less water and refills in a fraction of the time."

"Yeah, the original plumbing has held up all these years. Only need to replace the lid and seat now and then." Pressing a large finger to his temple Dodd searched his memory. "Maybe eighteen months ago."

Sherlock seemed enthralled by the door. He resumed testing the arc of the door, swinging it forward and back, as he listened to the pitch and timbre of the hinges like he was tuning his violin. Whilst John understood Sherlock was memorizing the sound changes at each degree, probably composing the "melody" of the door in his genius head, the doctor also realized how odd this all appeared to the others. Either the repetitive swinging of the door or the unpleasant monotony of the hinge sounds appeared to annoy Nathan, Gerry, Jack, and Dodd who watched with growing impatience. However, Clara was distracted, looking down at her shoes as if she wanted to be anywhere else.

After Sherlock maneuvered the door many more times, seemingly mesmerized by the action, John leaned forward and inquired softly, "Um. Seen enough?"

"Right, John!" Sherlock clapped his hands and grinned with delight. "Now, to the basement!"

ooOOOoo

* * *

Still more story to come and more thanks to give. ;-)


	5. Chapter 5: The Game's FINALLY On

**The Game's FINALLY On:**

 **Sherlock and John are OUT on an adventure**

 **ooOOOoo**

 **Third Part:**

 _Recap: Sherlock has been conducting a very thorough investigation and in the process has_ _tested the patience of the employees._

 **ooOOOoo**

 **ooOOOoo**

"Wonderin' when you'd get to it, Holmes," Dodd groused good-naturedly. "Have to admit. Y'd been lookin' a bit daft."

"It's getting late!" Gerry snapped with an annoyed growl. "All this standin' round, crazy business: flushin' toilets, swingin' doors! Bloody barmy if you ask me!"

"Well, appearances can be deceiving, but yes," John defended Sherlock who had retreated into his Mind Palace, leaving him to deal with the human _bothers_ as the detective liked to call them _._ "Actually, it's essential to this investigation." Tossing a worried glance at his utterly silent partner, John hoped Sherlock wouldn't be preoccupied for too long.

"The light bulb's a bit inconvenient," Dodd apologized, snorting a chuckle of embarrassment. "Haven't _ever_ got round to puttin' a switch at the door. Only use the place twice a week for an hour at most." Dodd extended his big paw and motioned to the youth, "Jack, give the Doc the torch."

"Not necessary." Sherlock rejoined the conversation. "We'll go down in the dark just like the burglar does."

"Huh? Without light?" Momentarily pushing aside his growing exasperation, Gerry was plainly dubious.

"Without light!" Sherlock insisted with unmitigated condescension, thereby lighting the fuse of Gerry's shortened temper.

"How do you know he doesn't use a torch?" Dodd found the idea baffling.

Drawing closer to his boss, Nathan pulled out his own mobile and showed Dodd the torch-app feature, adding, "Or even a mobile phone?"

"See here!" Irritated by their stupidity, the detective crouched and pointed to the wide gap between the basement door and the floor. "Any light source would have been detected or at the very least attracted attention through this broad space. Rather than risk detection, your intruder is clever enough to use another means." When Sherlock stood again, no one noticed the flicker of amusement except John, who detected enormous satisfaction in the thin, smug smile.

"Besides," John picked up the discussion to support Sherlock's position, "the burglar is _disguised._ Carrying a torch would definitely arouse suspicion, and so would a mobile if it were found in his pocket no matter how compact."

"But he would need light to pick and choose what he takes," Dodd muttered to himself trying to process the assertions presented by the detective and the doctor. Standing close by, John barely caught the remark. Nathan grimaced, however, as if Dodd's comment were a revelation.

"C'MON NOW!" Gerry exploded, marching toward Sherlock and waving his arms wildly.

With quick steps of his own, John maneuvered between them, not to challenge the warehouse manager but to protect his friend in case it came to blows. Gerry proved to be all bluster and no bite to John's relief.

"Now you _refuse_ a torch," Gerry sputtered with frustration. "Go ahead; let's see how far you get in the dark. Gonna smack your shins on something, if not crack your head open."

A retort seemed at the tip of the detective's tongue, but Sherlock threw John a resigned look and instead entirely dismissed the remarks with his most pleasant voice. "Good. That's settled!" He rubbed his hands together with enthusiasm. "All I ask is, before Dr. Watson and I descend, you _all_ remain standing where I position you until this exercise is done. After, I want you to tell me what you've seen."

Curiosity had replaced doubt on the men's faces, and Gerry having vented his aggravation was actually simmering down. Only the silent Clara looked forlorn.

Sherlock had become noticeably invigorated at the prospect of going into the basement; John suspected proving his theory was only part of it.

"Jack, hand over the torch to Nathan," Sherlock instructed, "and you stay here near me in front of the loo and basement doors. John, I need you to go to the alley door and wait for my signal." Directing Dodd, Gerry, Clara, and Nathan to walk back up the corridor, Sherlock waited until they had reached the doorway of the nearest storage room. "Stop! Stay there."

When everyone was in place, Sherlock checked Jack's location. The youth stood mid-distance between the warehouse storage room and the alley door and midpoint in the corridor between the closed basement door and the toilet.

"Okay, Jack," Sherlock placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder. "Listen closely. We'll rehearse what you must do. Watch me. Open the loo door, like this." The detective pushed the heavy and exceptionally broad door as wide as possible with an exaggerated motion ensuring the hinges sang. "Go inside, close the door slowly by counting at an even pace — _one-two-three-four-five_ —before you let it shut," Sherlock adjusted the volume of his voice so despite becoming muffled within the loo, he could still be heard and understood. "And once inside, flush—BUT I'M _NOT FLUSHING right now_ ," he shouted. "Wait until the water refills the tank before you come out." Sherlock appeared on cue. "When you exit, open the door slowly and widely, just like you did going in. Is that clear?"

Jack grunted an affirmative.

"Good! Listen now," Sherlock announced. "This experiment will take three minutes. Please do not move until the time is up. Do you understand?" Everyone nodded, even John.

Convinced they all knew what to do, the detective backed up several paces closer to John and called, "Ready, Jack?" Raising his arms up in the air, Sherlock ordered, " _Go!_ " Dropping his arms, he signaled John to join him as soon as the loo door, creaking loudly, opened wide and blocked the sightline between the storage room entrance and the alley door. As Jack counted to five before closing it, Sherlock had pulled open the basement door, which swung in the opposite direction—its hinges' creaking far less noticeable—and quickly he and John descended single file into the darkness.

 **ooOOOoo**

The rumbling of the furnace greeted their ears and the warm air puffed at their faces, but when both men removed their eyepatches, they were able to see without a torch in the dark basement. Although it proved what they already knew—an eye covered for at least thirty minutes would be able to see well enough to commit the burglary in a dark room—as soon as they exchanged looks, they burst into snorts and chortles with boyish abandon.

"Hurry, John!" Sherlock regained control first and tapped his wristwatch. "We've no time to waste," the detective advised in a hushed voice as he prowled around the basement. "This must take less than two minutes and forty seconds precisely. We have to be at the top of the stairs ready to leave when we hear the loo door open again."

Quite noticeable was the sound of water gushing through the plumbing to refill the tank: the constant reminder that time was short heightened the excitement, adding to John's enjoyment. "No _frightening_ dragons in this dungeon," he kidded, but instantly a dark shadow crossed over his bright spirits. A monster in his conscience awakened, reminding him that there was at least one victim at the conclusion of their investigation.

"Only the monsters and dragons we create for ourselves," his partner replied sardonically as if he were quite familiar with such manifestations, "and they can pop up anywhere, at any time."

John considered Sherlock's remark, but given their time constraints, let it be. Instead, surveying the area filled with shelves of merchandise, opened crates on the floor, and a few scattered work tables, he whispered, "So that's how the burglar made his way in and down without being noticed. And you suspect Clara was his accomplice?"

"Not suspect. _Know_." Sherlock also knew their investigation in the basement would not shed any further light on _who_ was behind it. That intel of a thief gaining access was on the video, but time in the basement had allowed him the privacy to discuss with John the details of the crime, the culprits, and the man with the motive—information Sherlock had gained by observing the function and layout of the warehouse and by _listening_ to Dodd and his employees. "From everything we've seen here and what we've just learned she _is_ the connection between Masterson and Dodd."

"Agreed. Too bad. I feel for her." John squatted, picking up a contemporary-style wall plate that lay on the floor outside an opened crate. "Masterson got Clara the job and after his altercation with Dodd, he preyed on her weakness," he said as he absent-mindedly examined the item. Perceiving nothing extraordinary about the plate to give it value, John shrugged and put it down. "Sounds like a motive and she's caught in the middle. Still, the whole scheme seems like a petty dispute; snatching little items for whatever reason." He waved a palm over the strewn items on the floor. "Such an elaborate operation for so little results."

"Little items that add up to a significant cost." Sherlock too crouched to inspect the scene of the burglary comparing what he had memorized from the photos Dodd had shown him in Baker Street. Nothing had changed. "Revenge, whether on a large or small scale, is _still_ revenge. In the meantime, John," Sherlock swiftly stood up with a deep exhale. "Let's play!"

"Y'don't fool me," John snickered softly and rose to his feet. "The simple thing would have been to tell Dodd what we knew the moment we walked in—without this elaborate demonstration."

"Needed to pace ourselves, John." The detective offered the thinly veiled excuse as his eyes darted about. "Wanted to make sure the covered eye had time to adapt."

"No," John insisted, his eyes fixed on his evasive friend. "Admit it. It's all been about _being_ a pirate, hasn't it?"

Meeting John's eyes with his own, the pirate-detective unmasked his sheer delight with a buccaneer's snarl, " _Arrgh!_ _R'ght ye arrrre, matee_!" His soft chuckles were merry and lighthearted and so extremely rare for the man who expressed them. " _Ah!_ " He paused, savoring the moment. "Never thought I'd ever say that to a living _person_ —" The word caught and Sherlock's voice cut out.

Surprised, John squinted at his friend.

Sadness in Sherlock's eyes transformed the composed expression of the man who spurned sentiment as weakness. Nostalgia dissolved his defenses, leaving him vulnerable as if he could not keep at bay the ache elicited by memory: a memory of loss so deep in his childhood, it caused the near extinction of _caring_ — _about what others thought of him, about what he felt for others_ —in the extraordinary man who survived it. More unnerving was how Sherlock stared both at him and through him to something painful beyond. He held John's gaze a bit longer—as if he wanted to share a long-buried secret—but then he turned away muttering, " _hic sunt dracones_."

 _Here be dragons._ Translating the Latin, John swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. The melancholy he heard in the voice was unmistakable, and the word _person_ resonated with him. Loneliness had been their common denominator even before they met, another language beneath their words. Their unlikely and unexpected friendship had changed them _both_. Moved by this realization, John dropped his gaze to his feet, uncertain what to say or whether he should say anything. An unexpected awkwardness made him fidget; his left fist tightened.

Guardedly, he looked up at Sherlock again; the moment had passed. Sherlock had resumed his mask of indifference and had occupied himself with the open crates. John bit his lower lip as he made his decision. _It was safer this way._ There was no need to broach a subject that was too involved for either of them. _Some other time perhaps._

Clearing his throat, Sherlock focused on the topic he had wanted to discuss before the distraction. "Revenge is the motive, John, I am certain. It is true we knew _how_ before we arrived, but it's a mistake to theorize before we have all the evidence firsthand. Coming to the warehouse has provided much more data. We're also down here for another reason; let's prove a point!" Sherlock handed him a packing bag he had swiped from a pile on the shelf. "Start looting," he said jauntily, back on familiar ground. "Take whatever you can find and load this bag." Following his own advice, the detective snatched nuts and bolts from crates on the shelves and stuffed the items into his packing bag. "When we get to the top of the stairs, we'll drop our booty into the closest postage box at the basement door— the one with a virtual office address and likely a bogus name."

It was easy to see the merchandise in the crates and to maneuver using the minimum light from narrow slotted windows that rimmed the basement and the gap beneath the door. Some of the items were antiques, although most of the salvage dated back only fifty or sixty years, still old enough to have value in the lucrative retro market. Pacing themselves to the sound of the refilling water closet, Sherlock and John completed the pilfering in less than a ninety seconds.

"I dunno, Sherlock. There's still something missing," John hissed softly as they prepared to mount the steps. "We took things randomly, modern things as well as antiques, but the merchandise stolen by the burglar was specific. How would he have had time to search through everything for particular items in just two minutes and forty seconds? There had to be someone who laid out the items in advance."

"If that's true, John," Sherlock considered, "then why involve the pirate burglar at all? Couldn't _that_ person have brought the items up and put them in the virtual address box?"

"Something Dodd said earlier has me thinking," John admitted. " _Maybe …_ this 'accomplice' didn't know that he was aiding and abetting in a larceny."

 _Two_ appreciative eyes blinked at John as if a light flashed, then Sherlock bounded lightly up the stairs with John right behind. At the top they listened for the loo door swinging open. Timing it precisely, Sherlock swung open the door; John dropped their cache in the last postal box, and they both took their positions in the corridor as Jack closed the loo door.

When all eyes met, four pairs were wide with wonder. One pair was terrified.

 **ooOOOoo**

 _Almost done! One more chapter amd an Epilogue to go._

 _Your patience is greatly appreciated. Enormous thanks go to all the reviewers who have encouraged me to continue, but I'd like to express my deepest thanks to my wonderful betas who always point me in the right direction._


	6. Chapter 6 GAME OVER

**GAME OVER!**

 **Sherlock and John are OUT on an adventure**

 **ooOOOoo**

 **Fourth Part:**

 _Recap: Returning from the warehouse basement, Sherlock and John face the astonished_ _employees._

 **ooOOoo**

"What did you _actually_ see?" Sherlock asked the stunned warehouse owner.

"Nothin'!" Dodd struggled to recover his voice. "You,... you both were…gone...from the corridor," he nodded slowly, registering what had happened. "We knew you went below, except we couldn't see because the loo door blocked our view. Just as you said, no light came from under the door like it does when the bulb's lit. Didn't see you come back up when Jack came out, but once the loo door closed...well, here you both are right now."

"And where we _are_ standing is the second corridor back to the showroom— the escape route for your burglar who hides in plain sight. I imagine even _you_ can work out the _who_ and the _why_." Along with his snarky delivery Sherlock wore a conceited grin until a nudge against his ribcage dislodged it. Sliding a quizzical glance toward his partner, the detective observed John's raised brows and pursed lips signaling: a _bit not good._

"Gor blimey, Holmes!" Shaking his head in dismay, Dodd expressed his regret with a resounding sigh. "Tis hard for me to believe it, but yeah, I know the why _and_ the who." The warehouse owner's voice was husky with emotion. "Clara, come clean, girl. I won't be too hard on you."

Wringing her hands Clara was sniveling with fear and remorse, moaning, "Sooooo sorry, Big W! I didn't mean to do it. It was awful, I know. Carl always wanted me to look the other way when he nicked little stuff." She was rocking back and forth where she stood, wiping tears spilling from her eyes with the back of her hands. "He said I owed him that. But, then it got bigger. Started with two expensive corbels that had just been off-loaded from the lorry. The guys left them in the showroom."

Dodd laid his thick arm gently over the girl's shoulders as she heaved with broken sobs.

"Carl wheedled me. Said they would be perfect for Doreen's home, her being pregnant and all. It'd be _our_ baby gift. Gave me that awful wink of his, like it was our secret. I know, I know, I know..." she moaned. "They hadn't been inventoried. _Just this favor!_ That's what he asked. _Just this favor_." Dodd fetched a clean hankey from his back pocket and handed it to Clara who failed to notice the hurt expression on her employer's face. "But after the fight with you, he brought in Stevie."

" _Stevie_?" Three male voices said in unison with identical skepticism.

Jolted, Dodd took a step back and away from Clara; disillusionment darkened his face.

"That potty drunk?" Nathan showed genuine shock. "He's been coming around for months, baddered as ever I've seen, but pretty harmless."

"Yeah, harmless. Stumbles in in the main doors. Smellin' something awful at times," Jack giggled. "So rat-arsed he is! We'd sport with him a bit, before shoving him back out, not to be mean, mind you, but y'know; gave us a good laugh."

"A _bloody_ good laugh on our account," Dodd snapped with a menacing growl that silenced Jack's chuckles. Slow to respond at first, the extent of the deception had become exceedingly clear to the man whose kindnesses had been blatantly betrayed. "NO!" The giant roared. His pleasant face was nearly unrecognizable; his unmasked fury was terrifying to see. "Robbin' me blind! Unforgiveable feckers!"

Quivering, Clara shrunk against the wall; Nathan and Jack cowered and backed away. Dodd's thundering wrath drew shouts of surprise and curiosity from the showroom where Judi, Tess, and Sammy had been waiting. Although they watched at a relatively safe distance at the far-end of the corridor, they too were perplexed by the rare outburst of their peace-loving employer.

"Under my VERY nose!" Dodd stormed, raising his eyes and huge fists toward the ceiling. His voice was twisted by anguish. "Do a man a good turn 'n he's laughin' behind your back! Mistakin' kindness for weakness! Takin' me for some BLOODY berk!"

"How…how could we know he was stealin', boss? We did what we could…." Gesturing nervously, Gerry showed unexpected bravery trying to calm Dodd down with reassurances. "Always made sure I booted Stevie out after I checked his pockets first. Right, boys?" Gerry turned toward his coworkers to solicit their support before swiftly resuming his _plea for clemency._ "The boys and me. We checked him. Never seemed to be filching merchandise. He was always clean. Just stinking drunk— we...we...we," Gerry stammered, flustered by his inadequate excuses and struggling to find better explanations why it happened.

Dodd ended further discussion with a dismissive shake of his head and dropped his chin to his chest. Covering his face with one large hand, the disheartened man took long, deep inhalations whilst softly muttering to himself.

During the uncomfortable silence that followed, the warehouse workers wrestled with their uneasiness. In the distance, the curious staff paced anxiously and wagged their heads in confusion. As no other instructions were offered, first Sammy, then Tess retired to the showroom to wait. Only Judi stood her ground prepared to help if the need arose.

John had witnessed Dodd's explosive rage with tremendous concern. Had the mammoth man become a raging bull, restraining him would have been a massive task for their mixed company. Just as important was the physical and psychological strain on the man himself whose blood pressure no doubt had spiked to dangerous levels. Watching closely, John noticed Dodd appeared practiced at using anger-management techniques to control his rage—a good thing for such a formidable man—moreover, what he was doing seemed to be working.

As Dodd's tension abated, John had one lingering concern: Sherlock's insensitivity to social cues might trigger another volatile scene with a carelessly placed remark.

Yet, Sherlock surprised him. Dispensing with his usual methods of brusque interrogation, Sherlock used soothing tones to ask his next question and kept tempers from flaring. "Did you ever find a torch or a mobile on him?"

Catching Sherlock's eye, John flashed him a grateful grin. Whilst the detective did not overtly acknowledge the signal, John noticed the tell-tale twitch in his cheeks, the precursor of a smile, indicating he understood.

"Huh? A Torch? Mobile?" Jack repeated and looked toward the others who were still stunned by Dodd's anger. "Hey, hey, Gerry? Nate?" He jostled them alert by their sleeves. "Y'listening?"

Sherlock repeated his question calmly. "Did you find either a _mobile_ or _torch_ in Stevie's pockets?"

Three "NOs" in succession made the detective smile broadly. "How about a black fabric swatch in his pocket?" Sherlock produced the eyepatch he had been wearing until returning from the basement. "Like this?"

Gerry, Jack, and Nathan looked at each other as their jaws dropped. Reluctantly, Gerry nodded. "Some nasty stuff, a small flask of god-awful whiskey, rags and crumbled paper, food wrappers that looked licked clean... that's what we found in his pockets, but we didn't give that cloth thing a second look."

"I swear the plastered prat only came in and went out by the front door," Nathan still wasn't able to believe they could have missed such an obvious intruder, and Jack agreed. "Swear, we never saw him near the basement door."

Sherlock frowned at the sniffling woman. "Clara, you were the only one _NOT_ _amused_ when Dr. Watson and I entered the warehouse wearing eyepatches, You've seen Stevie wearing one when you let him in the alley door. Timing your loo visit with Judi's phone call and Tess' lunch break allowed Stevie to sneak into the unlit basement."

Her shoulders heaving with soft sobs, Clara turned toward the wall and hid her face with shame.

"Leave off, Holmes." A weary voice interceded, and Dodd lifted his bowed head slowly. Under furrowed brows, his expression was fixed with pain, but a gentile dignity had returned to his eyes. He spoke firmly in her defense. "If you knew Carl, you'd know Clara's not really to blame. He's a bully and a lout. Out on a bender, he's owned to threatening and terrorizing whole construction crews, laughin' bout how he made them grovel just for sport." Dodd leveled his sad gaze on Clara and shook his head. "I tried. I tried to find the good in the man…not bloody likely, but Clara, I _know_ there's good in you."

Clara did not turn around, but her sobbing ceased.

Dodd cleared the weariness from his throat, rolled his shoulders back with a deep breath, and regained control of himself. "Gerry," he said. "Explain to Mr. Holmes and Doc Watson the procedure that involves access to the basement."

"Sure, boss" Gerry obliged relieved to see Dodd's normal demeanor. "Part of Nathan and Tom's job is to separate the vintage pieces from the modern equivalents, place them in corresponding crates, mark the crates, and arrange them on shelves that have corresponding labels. They're also required to fill out a customer order by selecting the pieces, recording the ordered items on the inventory list, bringing them up, and sorting them accordingly in ready-to-ship containers by the basement door."

"We do this twice a week, on Monday and Thursdays," Nathan added, "unless there's a special order."

Gerry nodded. "This system ensures that not only is each item tracked coming into the warehouse, but through the detailed shipping records, items that are _going out_ are tracked as well."

"So _you_ bring up the merchandise and put it in the shipping box," Sherlock tilted his head, considering what he had just heard. "How long does this task take?"

"Sorting through the orders is tedious work," Nathan replied. "Depends on how much stuff we have to collect. Takes at least twenty minutes on a good day. On a bad day, 'bout an hour."

"Not, two minutes and forty seconds…." Sherlock nodded and turned toward his partner. "John, you asked the right question before. You noted there was very little time for someone to go down in the total darkness, find specific items, and exit, _unless_ they were pre-selected. On this particular day, the routine was disrupted, somehow. The person who normally does the pre-selecting was not working basement duty. The burglar was at a disadvantage and had to sort through the merchandise to find what he needed. Within the usual time constraints to grab and go, there was definitely no time to replace the crates. That's how this theft was finally exposed."

"Clara," John addressed her gently. "Who helped you?"

"Nobody," She mumbled without turning around, resting her head against the wall.

"Time to ring the Met, Mr. Dodd," Sherlock advised stiffly. "If she turns Crown's evidence the law might go easier on her."

 _Calling in the Met?_ John nearly choked even though he knew Sherlock was laying the bait for the guilty party.

Taking a step back, Nathan stepped into Sherlock's trap—the final proof the detective sought.

"Not goin' to have _her_ charged, Holmes." Dodd warned flatly.

"Clara," Sherlock addressed the woman whilst shooting a penetrating glare at Nathan who was squirming noticeably. "How did you get Nathan to select the merchandise for Stevie?"

Clara pulled her head up abruptly, a look of astonishment widening her red-rimmed eyes. She rushed toward Dodd and clutched his shirt. Looking up at her boss, she pleaded tearfully, "I gave him a second list. The one Carl gave me. I didn't tell Nathan why…just told him to put those items on the worktable for later. I never wanted to make trouble for Nathan." Clara whimpered as she dabbed her eyes and twisted the hankey nervously. "I didn't know the routine got changed. I didn't know Gerry had assigned Nathan driving duty on Monday when he should have been pulling items for the list." She lamented and covered her face with her hands.

Directing his remarks toward Nathan, Sherlock did nothing to keep the accusation out of his voice. "You and Tom were the only two going into the basement regularly. Didn't you suspect something?"

A sheepish Nathan shrugged and scuffed his feet against the floor. "Thought it best to look the other way. Clara knew I wanted more driving duties. Trying to improve my lot, y' know," He looked down at his band-less ring finger. "And she was helping me. Thought if I didn't ask questions, she'd keep assigning me." He wagged his head nervously. "Didn't know the stuff on the lists was being stolen."

"But you _suspected_ ," Sherlock charged him sharply.

"No! Not really. Didn't actually care either way—hated that job! I'm capable of more! Sorry, Mr. Dodd, but it's true—me and Tom, we did what we were told and got out as quick as we could." Nathan shook his head. "Anyways, I didn't think twice about it, not until I heard about the break-in."

"So now we are left with an important unanswered question," Sherlock addressed the warehouse personnel, "Who is Stevie? Obviously, that's not his real name."

"We thought he was a pesky loiterer," Dodd sighed deeply. "When he first showed up, he stayed back, not really annoying the employees and customers, but we were suspicious that he might be pocketing items. After checking to make sure he was not hiding anything in his pockets, my warehouse managers and stock boys would take turns escorting him out of the store. At first we thought 'bout reporting him for disturbing the peace, but I took pity on him, 'cause he wasn't up to no harm—I _thought._ It's my fault for looking the other way."

"When did you start noticing merchandise was missing. Mr. Dodd?" John asked.

"Judi couldn't account for a few small items at first. This was about three months ago, but it didn't ring any alarms. We were hoping the items were merely misplaced somehow. Except, our inventory records are usually quite accurate. Several weeks ago, I took a hard look at the books and realized it was a consistent problem that was adding up to serious losses." Dodd seemed visibly shaken. "I was wrong to have dismissed them as insignificant, but the biggest mistake I made was to misplace my trust."

Uncovering her face, Clara bowed her head, hiccoughed and sobbed again.

"Now, now, girl," Dodd patted her on the back to comfort her. "I was talking about Carl."

Hearing the compassion in his voice, Clara lifted tear-filled eyes glazed with gratitude and hope.

"When did Stevie start showing up?" Ignoring the emotional waterworks as irrelevant, Sherlock grew more determined to guide the group to the conclusion he had already drawn.

"Four months, maybe," Gerry responded thoughtfully, folding his arms and clasping his elbows. "When would you say, Nate?

"No wait," Nathan raised a finger to his temple. "It was just about five months. I remember because he reminded me of a new customer who started an account with us around that time. Remember, Gerry? How could I forget? It was the first time you let me handle a prospective client. You were too busy working on that big order with Belfour, remember?"

"Was that client's name Eric Christopher?" Sherlock asked, sounding like he knew the answer.

"Yeah!" Nathan rejoined with amazement, "How d'ya guess?"

"I don't guess," Sherlock bristled. "It's the name on the virtual address box at the basement door."

"He's a _real_ client," Nathan insisted. "Mr. Christopher, a walk-in, came during our busiest time of the day when we'd get lots of in-and-out traffic. He was different, though, not like the other folks that browsed. Christopher was professional and he had lots of questions. Needed details about particular salvage items. He seemed like a real likeable bloke, too. Since he was a potentially big client, me and Tom showed him our inventory, gave him a tour of the basement. He was _that_ interested."

"Oh, brilliant!" Sherlock's voice was filled with sarcasm. Although his sharp disapproval sliced through their naiveté, Sherlock nearly leaped for joy. "You helped the soon-to-be-thief determine how to commit the thefts. Just so we're clear on this point, Christopher made a small purchase that day, established his clientele status with the warehouse, and left. You haven't _seen_ him since."

Looking everywhere but at their accuser, Nathan and Gerry stood humiliated and sheepish. Their reluctance to reply was as loud and clear as a resounding yes. It was obvious to everyone Sherlock had got the details correct.

"This confirms what happened." Sherlock revealed the facts as if he had witnessed them himself. "The so-called client Christopher had done his surveillance, and returning as _Stevie,_ he formulated a plan to get back into the basement. The plan required extreme patience, but the slow _burn_ of revenge made it all the sweeter for Masterson, looking to retaliate for his trouble with the law, and it gave Stevie time to work the drunk act for weeks before the nuisance of his presence became _routine_ , even a warehouse joke. "

John saw it all so clearly. "Once Stevie became a routine figure, he could make his move."

"I'd say, John, it's time we make a counter-move," Sherlock declared, clapping his hands in satisfaction. "I think Detective Inspector Lestrade will find these details helpful. We've done all the legwork, merely hand-delivering the resolution." Turning toward the warehouse owner, he added, "It's up to you, Mr. Dodd, to press charges, but if my calculations are correct—which they usually are—in a few days, it will be _game over_ for Masterson."

oooOOOooo

* * *

Just the Epilogue now! You've lasted this long; don't miss the conclusion...

Many thanks to my beautiful Beta englishtutor and my other "anonymous" friend who serves me well.


	7. Chapter 7 Epilogue in the Flat

**Epilogue**

 **Conclusions in the Flat**

oooOOOooo

The sound of the key opening the front door at the ground floor alerted John. He had been sitting in his armchair, engrossed in his medical journal, until his ears pricked to both his flatmate's familiar tread mounting the seventeen steps and the quick pace of his footfalls, indicating excitement. John was not surprised to see Sherlock's satisfied smile beaming at him in greeting.

"Good news, I see." John dropped the journal to his lap.

"You are getting quite good at this, John," Sherlock said shrugging out of his great coat and hooking it on the peg. "But happiness is an easy emotion to detect. Still I grant you are trying, which is better than most."

The detective paused on the landing as if a thought stopped him. "Tell me why, John."

"Huh?" Expecting his ebullient friend would share his information whether or not he was asked, John was surprised by Sherlock's directive.

"Tell me _why_ I'm pleased." There was a glint of mischief in his eyes as the detective waited at the threshold.

"I'd just as soon stop whilst I'm ahead." John attempted looking disinterested as he picked up the medical journal again.

"You're no coward," Sherlock teased him with a widening grin. "Try."

"True, but I know which battles to pick." John didn't look up from the page, maintaining the pretense that the launch of a new comprehensive vaccination programme was much more interesting. He knew it wouldn't fool his friend but he wanted to make it clear he was not taking the bait.

"Then guess!" With a burst of energy, Sherlock circled the sitting room, engaging in the subtle behaviors which reminded John of an obsessive ritual for they always seemed to comfort him. Sherlock flipped through the stack of loose pages atop a mountain of books, checked the bookcase for signs of dust, picked up a small box on the high shelf shaking it gently, touched the penknife on the mantel, and sniffed for unfamiliar aromas. Seemingly satisfied that there had been no tampering since he had gone, Sherlock stepped on the coffee table to examine the wall, where several photos and diagrams were pinned. Somewhat impulsively, he launched himself forward, spun his entire body with a twisting feline motion, and flopped on the sofa.

Tilting his head toward John, Sherlock blinked. "Well?"

Knowing it was useless to continue reading, John slapped the journal against the arm of the chair as he rose. "Tea?"

"Don't stall," Sherlock countered as his eyes followed John. "Yes, and some biscuits. The fresh ones Mrs. Hudson was baking when I left."

"Maybe she didn't give us any. Or maybe I ate them all," John answered over his shoulder as he headed into the kitchen.

"Don't be absurd. She bakes for _us_. And you're not a glutton. The crumbs on your armchair are from two biscuits. Mrs. Hudson usually gives us a dozen." Sherlock answered smugly, turning his head and eyes toward the ceiling. "Do you _need_ a hint?"

"You don't like guessing games." John prepared the kettle and the mugs.

" _You_ do!"

"You won't stop badgering me until I try, will you? Then you will humiliate me for missing the mark." The clatter of utensils going into the sink was John's attempt to appear too busy for Sherlock's game.

"You've come a long way since then, John."

Whether the words themselves convinced him or the gentle encouragement in the voice that uttered them softened him, John acquiesced. Bowing his head for a moment and leaning both hands on the worktop, he sighed. "All right. Have to wait for the water to boil anyway."

Sherlock aimed a silly grin at the ceiling.

"You saw Lestrade today. This much I know because you told me this morning." Whilst speaking, John took several steps towards the sliding glass doors between the kitchen and sitting room. His voice had become reflective, his eyes narrowed as he gazed out the front windows. "Okay. I think what would make you pleased to this degree would be the solution to a problem that proved you were right, correct? Over the past week, there is only one outstanding case that you would expect me to know. So, this information has to be about the Dodd Warehouse break-in." John looked over at the reclining Sherlock for confirmation.

"Go on." Sherlock had turned his head toward John, content to watch his friend think his way through this.

John averted his eyes. Gently leaning his right shoulder against the door frame, he crossed his arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles before continuing. "To summarize the case: Hiding in the alley, Stevie is wearing his eyepatch when he is admitted by Clara on her way to the WC. Tess is at lunch and Judi is occupied. Clara shields his entrance with the loo door that faces the basement door and allows Stevie to descend to the dark basement. She waits nearly three minutes in the loo for him to collect the pre-selected items Nathan had left out per Masterson's list. Then she reopens the door and again shields Stevie's return from the basement. Pulling off his eyepatch, he drops what he has taken into the last of the ready-to-ship containers marked _Eric Christopher_ with a P.O. address, and resumes his act as loiterer "Stevie" until he is ejected through the main doors by one of the warehouse workers."

"Delightfully complicated. Almost as entertaining as a Rube Goldberg game," Sherlock interjected with glee. "And yet simple enough to work each time. Smashing!"

"Oh yes, smashing…." Recalling the details of the case kept John from fully participating in Sherlock's enthusiasm. Instead, he first scratched his head, then rubbed his left eye as the memories returned. Finally he recrossed his arms and continued. "As it is Clara's job to inspect the packages, finalize the items for shipping, and seal the boxes, no one except Clara knows there is an extra crate containing the untracked-outgoing inventory, shipping to a specific address with Dodd paying the post. That _bloody git_ Masterson! " John shook his head. " At least, after all this, Dodd did not bring charges against Clara. I think he's right to see her as another of Masterson's victims. He's a good man. I suspect he'll give Clara her job back."

"Yes. This is all true, but this is not _new_ information." Sherlock's voice remained neutral but not at all displeased.

Briefly John studied the reclining man who was peering at him and pondered, not for the first time, whether he should broach the topic about what had happened in the basement. _What childhood loss had Sherlock sustained to make divulging it impossible as a man? Why was his joy of pirating connected to grief?_ The questions were pressing, but John swallowed them and gave a resigned sigh. _Maybe Sherlock wasn't ready to share. Maybe I'm not ready to hear. We've only been partners for a short while...nearly eighteen months. There will be other times to talk. No need to highjack the topic and spoil the man's good mood by prying into dark secrets._

He cleared his throat and resumed the course of the conversation. "Does it have to do with finding out who Stevie really is?" John looked back at the kettle that had begun to boil but remained leaning in the doorway.

"Somewhat, but not completely."

"So what did Lestrade tell you?"

"Masterson hired a shady working associate, Geoffrey Marks, a con artist with a history of burglaries to help him get the salvage. Clara was not yet involved in the plan and did not know anything about Geoffrey/Stevie when he first visited the warehouse as Eric Christopher." In one fluid movement Sherlock went from supine to sitting upright on the sofa. "But why am I _pleased,_ John?"

John unfolded his arms, bent his head, and concentrated. When he finally looked up his eyes were bright with amusement, although his voice relayed his hesitancy. "Because the merchandise was recovered?" He guessed and quickly retreated to the kitchen to switch off the kettle.

"Very good!" Sherlock rose from the sofa, stepped onto the coffee table and back to the floor to join John in the kitchen. "Knowing what you know…where do you think the merchandise was found?"

"Dunno. In Masterson's basement?" John shrugged as he dropped the tea bags in the mugs and opened the tin of biscuits.

"Think again. You mentioned this when we first discussed the case in the flat." Sherlock helped himself to a biscuit and opened the fridge for the milk.

John's forehead creased, his eyes shifted introspectively as he recalled the conversation they had had about a week ago. "I said something about it not making sense to steal things that couldn't be sold, unless someone was ….doing their own restorations!" The eureka moment lit up John's face. "You found the merchandise in restorations done _on_ Masterson's house?" Bringing the mugs of tea to the table John sat; a delighted grin spread from ear to ear.

"Yup!' Sherlock popped the _p_ with undisguised glee as he slid the tin of biscuits on the table and took the opposite seat. "Outside: door knobs, kick plates; inside: hanging from the ceiling as chandeliers, sconces, hinges on the doors, pulls on the cupboards, antique door plates, screws, brackets, and decorative inserts for the mantelpiece. All identifiable and all quite incriminating indeed. Proof of ownership belongs to Dodd. Masterson is going away for criminal liability to trespass, burglary, and theft. Stevie is on the run. Lestrade thinks they'll find him." The detective sniffed. "I have my doubts."

Softly the cascading sound of laughter came from John's side of the table, increasing in volume and intensity. The more he considered how justice was served, the harder he laughed, and Sherlock had no problem joining him.

oooOOOooo

The End

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Thanks to all who stayed with this adventure and left their reviews, but especially to my fanfic friends and advisers who shared their wisdom to guide me.


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